Lord of the Two Lands Page 7

  The night before they were to begin the march away from Issus, Thaïs gave a dinner party in the tent. Banquets in Khemet could be extravagant, and it was fully expected that every guest should give himself fully to the spell of the wine, but Macedonians made Egyptians seem abstemious. They would be drinking and roaring till dawn, and up with the sun, ready for a long day’s march; if any of them was the worse for his night’s debauch, he would die rather than show it.

  She had been invited, of course. She had gone for a little while. But she was feeling ill: too much strangeness, too little sleep, and her courses were on her, stronger than anything the doctors had in their pharmacopoeia.

  She lay in her too-soft Persian bed, curled about her aching middle. Sekhmet was warm against it, giving what comfort a cat could. Meriamon squeezed her eyes against the easy tears. She was always like that in the dark of the moon.

  Her shadow had gone hunting. She had had no will to keep it back. It was a living thing, though magical. It needed to feed. Blood if it could get it, and the essence that was in blood. These hills were full of small wild things; and it took joy in the chase, running under the sky, silent ebon jackal-man with sulfur eyes.

  A little of that joy came back to her now and almost comforted her. She was close at last to sleep. The singing nearest her had paused. There was a moment’s silence; then the notes of a lyre, and a lone voice. It was a very good voice, with the marks of training in it: both depth and clarity, and a range that even she could marvel at. She let the words slide out of comprehension, blur into pure song, wine-song, love-song, sleep-song. On the very edge of the dark, the singer’s name whispered itself to her. Nikolaos.

  A smile went with her into sleep. Not so sullen now with wine in him and his unwelcome duty forgotten, and oh, but he could sing.

  o0o

  She was her shadow, running the hills in the night. Warm blood in her, a life taken with thanks and returned to the gods with its gift of sustenance.

  She was herself, her ka, her spirit that was Meriamon in every line and essence. Meriamon as she was in Khemet: lady of the temple, clothed in white linen, eyes made beautiful with kohl, intricate wig concealing her hair. A great collar lay on her shoulders, gold and lapis, carnelian and crystal, beryl and malachite. Gold twined about her arms, swung heavy from her ears. A fillet of gold bound the wig about her brows.

  The air rustled as with wings. Somewhere a serpent hissed.

  A shape rose up before her, terrible and beautiful: a cobra, hood spread wide, tongue flicking, swaying as it rose. Meriamon regarded it without fear. This was dream, and holy beyond holy, if that one showed itself to her; and the other, dark wings spread wide, vulture-head raised, cold eye fixed on its companion. Edjo of the Delta, uraeus serpent, goddess of the Red Crown, enemy of the enemies of Ra who was a face of Amon; Nekhbet of the White Crown, vulture-goddess, guardian of Upper Egypt.

  Meriamon bowed before them. They took no notice of her. She was royal blood but not queen, nor would ever be. That, she had known since she was small; she had never been aught but glad of it.

  High above her a hawk screamed. Horus-falcon, who watched over the Great House, whose eyes were the sun and the moon. His wings stretched from horizon to horizon. His voice filled the sky.

  And yet the heart of it was silence. And in that silence, presence.

  Very slowly, very carefully, Meriamon lifted her head. Amon, she thought. Hidden one. Wind-god, sky-god. Lord of the ram, king of the gods, whose face was the sun.

  No. A whisper, softer than wind in the reeds, gentler than water lapping its banks. Nile water, Nile reeds, under a sky that knew no cloud, and stars that never hid their faces.

  No, child. Soft as a mother’s voice, soft as sleep. It was everywhere about her. It had no face, no mortal semblance at all. It was simply, purely presence. It wrapped her about. It cleansed her of grief. It comforted her; it gave her strength. All that sleep could give, it gave her, and more than that. It made her, however briefly, whole.

  o0o

  Meriamon opened her eyes. The nightlamp had spent its oil. The camp was not quiet, it was never that, but its clamor had muted. Even in her walls of silk she could sense the coming of dawn.

  She lay on her back and stretched, arching against the cushions. Sekhmet walked the length of her body, light-footed, lambent-eyed. Meriamon swept her up and laughed, and stopped, startled. She felt—by every god and goddess, she felt as if she could sing.

  The rags of her dream frayed and vanished. There had been wings in it, serpent-eyes, a voice—

  She sat up, shaking her hair out of her face. The air was cold. She sprang shivering out of her warm blankets, snatching boots and cloak. It was early for her bath, but she was in no mood to wait for it. She pulled on trousers and shirt, blowing on icy fingers to warm them, wrapping herself tightly in her mantle.

  It was an hour yet till sunrise. Those who had to be up were moving quickly, muttering at the cold. Those who could afford to sleep were doing it, cherishing the last bit of warm darkness before the trumpets called them to the light.

  At the door of the tent, Meriamon paused. The lump of blanket just inside it was snoring in Niko’s rhythm. Her toe itched to dig into his side, to rouse him to his king-given duty.

  She took pity on him. She stepped over him into the cold still air. Even the sea was as quiet as it could ever be, the stars fading, the wind asleep.

  A shadow filled her shadow. Jackal-teeth gleamed; sulfur-eyes laughed. It was strong as she was, replete with running and the hunt. It brushed her back with warm fingers. She smiled over her shoulder.

  Something loomed behind it. She started. Her shadow bared its teeth.

  She quelled it, though her heart beat hard with shock.

  Niko’s eyes were huge, his voice a croak. “What—what in the name of—”

  It was all she could do not to burst out laughing. He looked like a half-fledged bird: all limbs and eyes and startlement, with his hair standing up in tufts and his blanket trailing behind. He shivered convulsively, but never thought to cover himself. She did it for him.

  He shied, and stopped, eyes rolling white. She tucked in the edges of his blanket, careful of his splinted arm. “There,” she said. “Now you won’t freeze.”

  His teeth clicked together. “What in the name of Hades was that?”

  “What?” she asked.

  Her eyes dared him to press her. He looked as if he was going to; but he was stronger than that. Or more prudent.

  “I’m going for a walk,” she said. “You needn’t come with me. I’ll be quite safe.”

  For answer he stepped out past her, picking up his spear as he went by it, and stood waiting.

  He stayed out of her shadow. Wise man. She did not feel any better protected for that he was there, but neither was she displeased. Her shadow, like Sekhmet, found him fascinating. Great tawny-furred creature like a yearling lion, with his odd light eyes and his rough-carved face. He was not so ill to look at when he was not sulking; and he had a long-limbed grace, even with his arm in splints.

  There was no one by the privies, which was a mercy. Niko did his business apart from her, and kept his eyes to himself. When she was ready, he was waiting, expressionless.

  Better than a scowl, she thought. She wondered if his head was aching. He did not look it; but then Macedonians all drank like sponges.

  “I heard you singing,” she said, “last night.”

  He did not say anything.

  “You have a very good voice.”

  Nothing still. She slanted a glance at him. He had shouldered his spear and drifted a little apart from her, keeping to the outside as she skirted the camp’s edge. Guarding her.

  Temper rose, subsided. He was only doing his duty.

  “Someday you’ll have to sing for me,” she said.

  “If my lady wishes,” he said. His voice, like his face, held no expression at all.

  Her lips thinned. She did not speak to him again.

 
; o0o

  If Meriamon had not seen how swiftly Alexander’s army broke camp, she would have refused to believe it. Every man knew his place and each had his task, meshed and mingled like the great battle-beast of the phalanx. If there was confusion, if horse ran loose or hound escaped its tether, it confused only those whose duty it touched upon; and they were quick to settle it.

  They laughed as they did it, joked and sang, and some of the young men danced. By full daylight the whole army was formed in ranks and the march began, and at its center the long train of the booty, horses and mules and the shaggy Persian camels, and the lumbering wagons of the women. The hospital had vanished early into its own string of mules and its single light cart for the worst wounded.

  Meriamon was satisfied to walk behind the cart. Niko, of course, was not.

  He had tried to retrieve his armor and his weapons and carry them as his fellows did, even of the cavalry, who kept their horses to ride in battle and marched like common soldiers. Meriamon had let him go.

  His commander was no fool. He sent him back promptly. “I can carry my own gear,” Niko muttered loudly enough for her and anyone else to hear. “I’ve got two arms, haven’t I?”

  “Not at the moment,” Meriamon said. And when he glared at her: “Would you prefer to play packhorse now, simply to prove that you can do it? Or would you like to have the use of that arm when the bone sets?”

  “I won’t anyway, will I?”

  His bitterness was deep, and so honest that she stared. “What ever makes you think that?”

  He curled his lip. “Oh, come. You’ve all been jollying me along so nicely—do you think I’m that stupid? I know I’m lucky to have anything attached to my shoulder. I could lose it yet. Couldn’t I?”

  “Not if you take care of it,” said Meriamon.

  “What for? So it can dangle prettily and give people something to stare at?”

  She blinked. That was real pain, and real fear, strong enough to catch at her heart.

  He spat in disgust. “Never mind. I’ll shut up and play invalid.”

  “You do that very badly,” she said, sharper perhaps than she had meant.

  “Good,” said Niko.

  o0o

  The column wound out of the valley and ascended the hills, going down the way Meriamon had come: southward, with the sea on their right hands. The Parsa were driven far away. Inland, the scouts said, north and east, all the way to Cappadocia. The king did not deign to follow them. His eye for the moment was on the sea and its cities.

  Parmenion was gone. Meriamon could imagine Alexander’s relief to be freed of that potent and censorious presence. The general had accepted the charge of securing Damascus. It was a gate, and a great one, between Persia and the sea; and the lords of the Parsa had sent their women and their treasure there, a rich prize for Parmenion’s taking.

  Meriamon climbed up onto the back of the cart. The men in it were silent, drugged or unconscious. One of them did not look to last the day. She did what she could for them, and made her way carefully to the front. The mules kept a brisk walk, pulling the rattling, rocking thing; she could almost reach out and touch the thick-muscled haunches.

  She thought about getting down again. The mules would be happy to lose even her little weight, but she was more comfortable than she might have expected, and tired enough, for a moment, to indulge it.

  As she braced herself to slide down, swift hoofs came up behind. She glanced over her shoulder. The king had runners going up and down the line, mounted and afoot. He was in front himself, being a banner for the rest to follow.

  This was not one of his white-chitoned pages. It was a Persian in trousers on a Persian horse, a delicate beauty like a gazelle, its rider matched to it with an artist’s eye.

  He brought his mare to a neat, prancing halt beside Meriamon’s wagon and bowed in the saddle. “If your highness will be so gracious,” he said in excellent Greek, “my lady would speak with her.”

  Meriamon raised a brow. “Your lady?”

  The eunuch flushed; or perhaps it was only the wind on his cheeks. “My lady Barsine.”

  Meriamon inclined her head. He offered a hand. She swung lightly from wagon-front to horseback. The eunuch wheeled his mare about and sent her cantering back down the line.

  A horse, thought Meriamon. She would have to ask for one, or find a way to buy one. It would drive Niko wild to see her mounted and himself forbidden it.

  She almost laughed at the prospect; then hated herself. He was hurt, that was all, and afraid. Some men bore it in silence. Some screamed without shame. A few, like that one, grew angry at it, and hated their weakness, and were conspicuously nasty to everyone who saw them in it.

  She settled to the mare’s stride. It was smooth, its rider as skillful as all the Parsa seemed to be, as if born to a horse’s back.

  She was not as good as that. She had come to it later, though young still, and she had not ridden enough while she was in the temple. Horses were not a common thing in Khemet. Boats for the Nile, feet for the land, those her people knew. But she was royal, and her father had wanted her trained in that as a prince was; knowing, or foreseeing, what need she would have of it.

  She wondered what Barsine could want with her. Maybe it was the Queen Mother who asked, and Barsine but a pretext. No danger threatened: her shadow was quiet, gliding at the horse’s heels, making it skitter and fret.

  The Persian women’s wagons were as magnificent as their tents, great wheeled land-ships brilliant with paint and gilding, hung with leather as supple as cloth, and silk within in the rich deep colors the Parsa loved. Dark to Meriamon’s eyes; ornate and overwrought, too many curves and folds and no clean angles.

  She was sorry to leave the horse’s back and the bright air, cold though it was with the wind blowing, but clean. Perfumed dimness reached out for her and sucked her in.

  Not the Queen Mother, then. Her wagon was larger by a good measure, and all gold. This one was not quite bursting with women and eunuchs; was, Meriamon suspected, all but empty compared with the others.

  The one who was their focus sat propped with cushions. She was wearing Persian mantle and veil, but the gown under it was Greek, and her hair was knotted in a fashion Thaïs too was fond of, caught with a silken fillet.

  She was still, for all of that, pure high-nosed Persian. Her beauty seemed the more brilliant for its presence in this rocking, swaying box; her eyes were almost hungry, watching Meriamon as she clambered in.

  Meriamon narrowly avoided falling into the lap of a huge-bellied eunuch, lurched forward, dropped down in front of Barsine with nothing resembling grace. No one laughed. Meriamon took a moment to get her breath back.

  Her hair was in her eyes. She shook it away, pulling off her Persian cap, not troubling to put it on again.

  “Lady Mariamne,” Barsine said gravely.

  “Lady,” said Meriamon, not too breathlessly. “Barsine.”

  There was a pause. Meriamon was not in a mood to fill it. So many ears; so many eyes. It was worse than the novices’ court in the temple, when a new one came in and everyone watched and whispered and wondered if she could sing, or would she be a dancer, and how long would it be before she learned to do either?

  Meriamon could sing. She was not an ill dancer, though there were better before the god. She did not intend to do either here. She sat and let her breathing slow, and waited.

  Barsine smiled slightly. “You are welcome in my palace,” she said. “I had hoped that you would bring your cat.”

  “If I had known,” Meriamon said, “I would have asked her if she would come.”

  “She accepts no command?”

  “She is a cat,” said Meriamon.

  Barsine’s smile widened. “We had cats in our house when I was small. I never managed to tame one.”

  “Cats aren’t tame creatures,” said Meriamon.

  “So my father said.” Barsine leaned back against the cushions, propped on her elbow. She was slender, slim-h
ipped and high-breasted like a young girl, though she could hardly be less than five-and-twenty. Boyish, Meriamon thought. Even her face—in a cap, over a man’s coat, it could have been a young man’s, with its arched nose and its firm chin. Persian youths could be as beautiful as this, and often were; they prized their beards the more, perhaps, for that they made it clear who was a man and who was not.

  “Your Greek is very good,” said Meriamon. “Better than mine.”

  The lids lowered over the great eyes. “My thanks,” Barsine said. “I had good teaching. I was a child when I was married to Mentor the Rhodian, who served the Great King but who never forgot that he was a Hellene; and when he died, I was given to his brother. They wished me to speak their language. I was a good wife: I obeyed them.”

  There seemed to be no mockery in her tone. Her eyes were lowered, and unreadable. “Did you take no pleasure in it for yourself?” Meriamon asked her.

  She shrugged minutely. “Obedience is pleasure.”

  “Not,” said Meriamon, “in Egypt.”

  Barsine looked up then. “Not even for a wife?”

  “I’ve never been a wife,” Meriamon said.

  “No?” Barsine looked down again. Parsa manners: they thought it the height of rudeness to stare. “How interesting.”

  “Shocking.” Meriamon tucked her feet under her. The wagon was not swaying so much now. They had come down from the hills to a brief level. If she listened over the manifold sounds of the army on the march she could hear the sea, more distant now but clear. “Did you summon me to ask if I had ever been married?”

  Barsine’s cheeks flushed, delicate as a Damascene rose. “You must think me unpardonably rude.”

  “Only foreign,” said Meriamon, “and interesting. Is there something I can do for you?”

  Her briskness calmed the Parsa woman a little. “You talk like a man,” Barsine said.

  “I dress like one, too. It’s warmer.”

  Barsine smiled as if she could not help it. “Everyone says that you are... unique. Now I believe it.”